


The Mightiest of Men

by shadowsamurai



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, even the mightiest of men need someone to lean on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mightiest of Men

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)

SH-JW-SH-JW-SH-JW

I opened my pocket watch in irritation to check the time and realised I had lost count of how many times I had performed the same action in the last minute alone. I snapped the cover shut and thrust the watch rather roughly back into my waistcoat pocket. With one hand on the mantelpiece, I stared into the flames of the fire, absently flicking ash into the grate from yet another cigarette that had simply burnt down between my fingers. Making a little effort, I raised it to my lips with the intent of taking a drag and realised there was nothing left to smoke. Sighing frustration, I threw the tip into the fire and shoved my hands into my trouser pockets, turning and walking to the window. As I looked down into the night-darkened street, I imagined I saw Holmes at every turn, cleverly disguised as a chimney sweep, perhaps, or a simple clerk on his way home.

It was not uncommon for Holmes to be gone for hours, perhaps even days, at a time, with no word as to his whereabouts, but this time was different. Our most recent case had left us both visibly shaken but Holmes particularly seemed to take the failure to heart. Not only had we let the criminal escape, but our client had suffered a most gruesome death which I believe Holmes witnessed. He would not tell me, and I cannot be sure if he did or not as we were separated at the time, but the way he had slipped into such a dark despair told my instincts as a doctor that something clearly was amiss. He had left our humble quarters at Baker Street that morning after several days of self-imposed confinement without a word. Holmes had not eaten for days, which was not unusual either, but he had made no attempt to reach for his normal antidote to such a lull; his cocaine bottle and needle lay untouched in the drawer. Even his pipe had not moved from its precarious position on the edge of the mantelpiece.

The notion to attempt to track Holmes down had entered my head several times that day, and left again almost as quickly. Holmes could fool me as easily as anyone else; I could hold a conversation with him and still not realise who it was, so my chances of finding him were extremely slim. And even though I knew Holmes was more than perfectly capable of looking after himself, a cold dread had filled me over his continued absence from his rooms. Judging from his expression when he left that morning, he was in the mind to do something very foolish, and I had seen enough dead bodies of comrades to last me several lifetimes. I would not care to repeat the experience.

As I lit another cigarette, I realised the house was completely silent, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. Somehow the hours had passed rather quickly, and it was now the early hours of the morning. Sighing wearily, I threw my cigarette into the dying fire and left the room, looking briefly into Holmes' bedroom before trudging up the stairs to my own. His room had been empty and looked exactly the same as it had the previous times I checked it.

I cannot say what made me stop at the top of the stairs, but something made the hair on the back of my neck stand up to attention and I found myself wishing desperately for the safety of my revolver or even my cane. Though why any thief would want to make the dangerous trip to the top of the house when there were plenty of valuable things to steal on lower levels was beyond me. Then I berated myself silently over my foolish behaviour. The house was secure, no one had crept passed Mrs Hudson; it was safe. Shaking my head, I stepped into my room and went to turn the lamp up.

"Leave it," a hoarse voice said.

I almost jumped straight out of my skin. "Holmes! What the devil are you doing, man?" I demanded to know.

When he didn't answer, I turned the lamp up a fraction and then scanned the room. At first I didn't see him, but as I looked around a second time, I spotted him. Holmes was sat on the floor in the corner or my room, his back against the wall, his thin legs drawn right up to his chest and his chin on his knees.

"I say, Holmes, are you alright?" I asked in concern, my anger at him startling me having disappeared instantly.

Holmes barked a hollow laugh. "No, Watson, I am not," he admitted. "I doubt I will be 'alright' ever again."

Unsure how to proceed, I just stood staring at him. "Is there anything you need?"

He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again. He did that several times before whispering, "A friend."

Perching on the edge of the bed nearest to him, I leant forward onto my knees. "My dear Holmes, you have that in me. You always have, and you always will."

"Such weakness is unbecoming in a fellow such as myself."

"Holmes, despite what some people may think, you're only human," I told him with force. "You are allowed to want some sort of comfort at times. I would worry a great deal if you did not."

"The mightiest of men, eh, Watson?" Holmes asked me, a slight smile gracing his lips.

"Indeed." Standing, I took two steps towards him, then eased myself onto the floor, making sure we sat with our shoulders firmly together. "It is not weakness, Holmes, to admit how you are feeling. The only fault I see is trying to fool one's self that you do not feel anything at all."

"I should have known, Watson," he murmured to me several moments later. "I should have *known* what the villain was going to do, yet I failed to stop him! I let my ego and my pride get in the way, and now that young man is dead while his killer has vanished, most likely never to be seen again." Holmes hung his head. "I will never forgive myself for making such a foolish mistake."

"You cannot berate yourself forever," I told him. "And you cannot keep turning potential clients away because you are afraid that you will make the same mistake again."

Even in the dim light, I could see Holmes' surprised expression. He did not know that I had been watching him turn client after client away with the excuse he was either too busy or that the case wasn't intriguing enough for him, and I knew the real reason behind all the dismissals straight away.

A wry smile touched his lips. "I fear I may have been a bad influence on you, Watson."

"Perhaps. But these people need you, Holmes. They need someone to lean on, however briefly, and that person is you."

"And what about me?" he asked. "What about when I need someone to lean on?"

I held out my right hand, palm up, between us. "Me, old man. You will always have me to lean on should you need to."

To my surprise, Holmes didn't hesitate in taking my hand with his left. "Thank you, Watson."

FIN


End file.
